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LFED DIZZY 4
(OOC notes: During kaissa, T’skrang become gendered. In their language, the T’skrang would use a different pronoun to refer to an ungendered person, but in translation “she” is as close as I could get.) D’zurr had spent the first few days of her kaissa oscillating between seasickness and sheer rage. The seasickness came from the endless rocking of the rivership, R’vurr’s Dancer. The rage was more complicated, aimed as it was at her chaida and niall, her parent and hearth. How dare they send her away, just when she needed him most of all. How dare they make her a slave on this stupid ship? How dare they imagine they knew what was best for her? '' Days and weeks of trading passed, with the youngest member of the crew still surly, still stubbornly refusing to raise her tail in the natural ship-board balance that came so easily to the T’skrang. R’vurr herself excused her to the less patient members of the crew. ''Everyone remembers how bad kaissa can be, and everyone forget how badly they themselves behaved, she reminded them. Be patient a little longer. And the others reminded each other that D’zurr and R’vurr shared a chaida, and of course, their captain would expect success for someone who might be considered, among the pitiful tail-less of the world, a younger sibling. But after months of D’zurr’s obstinate refusal to learn the simplest lessons, the first trader, Me’aal’chin took matters into his own tail. He was a lively, engaging T’skrang who had spent years among many of the Named races, the winged Windlings, the patient Obsidimen, the graceful Elves. R’vurr herself claimed that he could sell anything, from rocks to an Obsidiman, to a broken hammer to a dwarf. They were sailing into Urupa when he took D’zurr aside, saying he had a special job for her. “We are heading back home soon, and the egg-layers wanted some of the good chitterlegs that the Windlings sometimes sell us. You know how tasty they are?” He speaks as if I am an idiot, thought D’zurr. Everyone knows that the egg-layers crave those little things, that their husks make good shells. She had tasted one herself once, a greasily bitter flavor that the adults around said she’d grow to like. She did admit that the squirming down her throat was pleasant. Me’aal’chin continued. “We usually get them from one Windling, Liwon. He keeps a little stand near the market square. Make a good bargain, hear? And don’t let him sell you one of those fancy wooden boxes, just a bag of paper is fine for them.” D’zurr’s tail jerked in shock when he handed her two solid pieces of gold and she met his eyes for confirmation. His face gave nothing away. “Make a good bargain and maybe you’ll be a trader, not a sailor. There’s profit to the niall from either.” D’zurr trudged up the dusty streets to the market square. Urupa was a big town, compared to most of their stops, and she had heard it even housed a Branch Library, with a fine collection of manuscripts. Some of the other sailors had been inside and one said she’d seen a painting showing Aalv’isss’s defeat of the terrifying Horror of Urupa. Her tail still dragged in the dirt, but the sights and sounds were almost irresistible. Everywhere Named people rushed and dawdled, buying and selling the strangest thing. And the houses were the sheerest oddities, set back from the river where the poorest T’skrang would decline to live. She reminded herself that she was angry, that she shouldn’t have to serve on the stupid, dirty boat, crowded with a stinking, boasting crew that never stopped prodding one to learn or do things. Maybe Me’aal’chin was right though. She wasn’t hatched a sailor; maybe her egg had contained the makings of a fine trader instead. She imagined gaining great profit for her niall and her chaida proudly boasting of her bargains. This Windling wouldn’t know what hit him; she’d get the best price for chitterlegs anyone had ever heard of. She promised herself she’d get the forty the village wanted for one gold only. Oh, she was a genius for getting a good bargain! The Windling accepted her offer of six silvers without even trying to bargain her up; obviously he sensed that he was hopelessly outmatched! She had firmly declined his offered wooden box, and ignored his attempts to persuade her. Windling or no, he wouldn’t be able to trick her. D’zurr’s tail flicked and twitched on its own, and she was happily thinking about Me’aal’chin’s astonishment and delight as she trotted towards the ship, the bag full of scratching chitterlegs firmly in hand. But she didn’t need to get back to the ship right away; they weren’t to leave until the next sunrise and it was scarcely past noon. She hesitated a long moment, and then the idea hatched in her mind: if she came back too quickly, they might not realize how hard a bargain she’d struck. The story (soon to be the legendary D’zurr’s First Bargain) needed more hardship, more determination on the part of the heroic T’skrang. She’d have to find something else to do. Ah, the Branch Library! She’d never been inside one of those dwarf concoctions; her niall had a collection of twenty-two books and seven scrolls, but people said the libraries had more, maybe as many as fifty. D’zurr couldn’t believe that; it was certainly a tale for gullible hatchlings; everyone knew that her niall was unusually rich in books. I’ll never get another chance to see one, she thought. I’ll be stuck on that smelly boat for months again. Perhaps she’d even find a missing story of Aalv’isss or a clue to his intended return, when, as the legends said, the T’skrang need him most. What a story that would be to tell her chaida! The building was large, crafted of stone in a style she did not know, but the guard waved her through almost before she asked, muttering something about it being free every ten days. She wandered, dazed, from room to room. Books everywhere! More books, enough books that her niall’s proud collection would have drowned like a drop in the river. A tail-lowering thought, but she was too excited to still her tail which danced in excitement and delight. She peered at pages of angular dwarven script, wishing she knew how to read it. One book set on a shelf had pictures of t’skrang sailors keeping their river boat afloat through a dreadful storm. One even looked like her chaida; her tail’s jerk of surprise upended a pile of books set on a table. “Hey! Watch yourself!” came an angry yelp. Like hatchlings seeing an Obsidiman for the first time, heads popped up over other piles of books on other tables. She aimed an apologetic smile at them. When that seemed to work despite the grumbles, she aimed it at the person the books had revealed. A Windling, standing on a book as big as she was, glared at her. D’zurr lowered her tail tight around her feet. Words from one of her favorite Aalv’isss stories sprang to her lips. “Alas! Let my tail be ever low, if I intentional, struck that blow.” She offered the Windling her most sincere bow. The Windling’s eyes brightened. “Ah, a poet? Well then, well, well, all is forgiven.” She flung herself down to pluck up one of the heavy tomes, and D’zurr sprang to help her with an eagerness which would have astonished her shipmates. She’d heard tales of the tricks that offended Windlings would play to avenge even slight insults. “I’m not really a poet,” she explained. “My chaida told me lots of stories and some of then sunk in.” “Better still,” replied the Windling. “What is poetry without a dedicated audience? I myself have several popular works in progress. That is, they will be popular when I get them done.” D’zurr’s eyes brightened and her tail twitched free of her control. “Are they grand heroic stories with impossible odds and daring adventures?” “More about good things to eat and seeing new places every day,” replied the Windling as they set the last book on the table. “Lots of cakes in my poetry, which is a good thing. Plenty of things rhyme with cake. Lake, fake, shake, make, bake – a particularly fine one, of course – take, wake – I say, is your bag supposed to be moving like that?” The last was said in another high-pitched yelp, and heads once again popped up over stacks of books. D’zurr leapt on her bag of chitterlegs which has been inching slowly away from her conversation with the little Windling.